


Isochronism 1 of 2

by minkmix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, F/M, Other, Protective Sam Winchester, gender swap, there is sex here but i have no idea how to tag it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-16 10:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15435531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkmix/pseuds/minkmix
Summary: I never thought I'd do it. But I did. There's a story after this with Sam, which I think is a lot better. But whatever.





	1. Chapter 1

The wound down the inside of his arm was a perfect straight line.

It was as if a blade had been guided carefully and slowly down his flesh instead of the brief lightening flash of its metal, the hot searing tear of its edge and then suddenly nothing at all.

The wielder of the weapon had been as indistinct as the shadows that filled the cramped stone place. The ceiling low and sagging with tree roots from above. It was more like some long forgotten bunker from a century old war than what it really was. They’d come to set a fire and found nothing left to burn. It was empty and gutted, a home for forest life and the cold seep of wet earth that made its floor. But it hadn’t been completely empty. It hadn’t been deserted.

The moon was obscene that night, the strong pale cast of its glow like a presence in itself. They'd searched the ground with all their senses, fingers brushing through damp soil, over crumbling stone, disturbing the gnarled ancient vegetation clinging to the walls. The trip back through the tangle of woods eventually lead them back to the road. There under the orange glare of the street sodium lights Dean examined his wound more closely. It was shallow. A thin slice into the very first layer of skin and nothing more. The placement and lack of true damage meant only one thing.

“You got marked.” Sam said, turning Dean’s arm back and forth in his hands.

Dean studied the strange color of the line, a dark blue instead of a swollen inflamed red like it should have been.

“Whatta ya think? Slow death? Poisoning?” Dean waved his fingers. “Mind control?”

Sam didn’t return his smile.

“How do you feel?”

Dean took a moment so he could honestly answer that question. He felt like he had just hiked in and out of about ten miles of thick unobstructed forest in the middle of the night and found next to nothing they had been promised they’d find. His muscles ached. His feet hurt. His shoulder rang with pain every time he raised his arm more than a few inches above his waist. Not quite sure how that one happened but sometimes in the thick of a fight, you lost track of what exactly made impact with your body and how hard.

He hadn’t eaten since that morning so he felt half sick with nausea. Dean examined and cracked his right wrist. Oh yeah, his wrist that he’d fractured several times over the years now felt like every tendon in was on fire and he could barely make a fist.

“I feel fine.” Dean answered with a shrug.

Sam studied him a moment longer before he swung the car door open.

“Let’s get out of here.”

 

 

 

 

 

Dean did feel fine.

By the time they had gotten to a place to crash, he hit the pillow without so much of a toss and turn before he was out like a light. The next morning, he found himself almost in the exact same position he’d landed in. A rare sign of a full night of deep uninterrupted slumber.

He studied the strange smooth blue line on his arm when he got into the shower, tracing it with a finger tip. It was a strange thing he never admitted to anyone, not even their father, but he was fairly proud of the marks that ended up on his body. He particularly liked the deep ones. The type that had gouged and tore enough to leave a sign on his skin for the rest of his life. He liked to look at them, think of how exactly they became to be there.

This perfect blue line was no good, he knew enough to know that. But there was something about it that was serene and almost decorative in a way that he couldn’t quite stop looking at it. Looking closer he saw the skin around it had seemed to have grow paler. Running his fingers along the blade’s passage, the warm shower water seemed hotter to the touch on his flesh there. More sensitive. As if dozen of new nerve endings had formed up and down its length.

Turning off the water’s sputtering flow, he decided it was time to see if Sam had found anything about the temple they entered and what it meant.

 

 

 

 

The steady clicking of the keyboard was thankfully the only sound in the room.

Dean was laying very still on his bed, one wrist clasped in the other across his forehead. Ever since they had quietly eaten breakfast at the grease pit adjoining the truck stop he had had a weird sickening feeling down in the pit of his stomach. Several times he thought about just trying to make him throw up to rid himself of the sensation, but it didn’t quite stop there.

It radiated down his limbs, the room’s temperature going from too cold to too hot in moments, his clothes feeling sweaty then not enough all at the same time. The line on the inside of his arm hadn’t changed. If anything it had faded a little, the navy blue of its color paled. Like a vein just below the skin, shallow and washed out.

“Anything?”

He felt like breaking the silence. He briefly wondered if all this was the onset of some annoying flu that would bog him down for a good week or so. That would be just freaking perfect.

The steady typing stopped.

Sam sighed, pushing the laptop away a little to signify that he was allowing himself a break.

“Nothing.” Sam breathed as he stretched back, tipping back his chair as he yawned. “What we found was old Dean. Old as in, when the Native tribes around here found it that place was already half buried and done.”

“Fantastic.”

“The fact that we found it all surprised the prof I e-mailed, he said he just read about it a few years back when he was doing research for his thesis.”

Dean pulled up one hand to look at Sam.

“What was his thesis about?”

“Pagan Goddesses, female shamans mostly and um, the divinity and power of those that maintain creation. You know, women.”

“Moon power.” Dean sighed, another wave of strange rippling up the back of his throat.

“Something like that.” Sam mumbled as he drew his laptop closer to him once again. “You feeling anything else, you know, besides tired?”

Dean realized he hadn’t mentioned to his brother all the other funky stuff he’d been experiencing since that morning. But why should he? It felt like every single other time he’d ever started to get sick. If violating a temple meant he had to eat soup and crackers for 7 days, he could live with that just fine.

“Nope, just tired.” Dean answered him.

It was just out of his mouth when he felt it. Sharp and bright hot, something twisted like a knife in his belly. No, not his belly, just below it, under his belly button and above the hardness of the pubic bone. His hand went involuntarily down over the spot, letting out a small pained hiss when he felt it again.

“I-I think I just need more shut eye.” He rolled over.

"You hungry?"

The thought of food made his brow crease. He was hungry. But his limbs were useless and made of lead and he could not bring himself to think about the bother of food though his belly lurched and rumbled.

"Nah." He said into his pillow.

Unbuttoning the tops of his jeans he slid his hand over the spot just beside his hip bone, somehow trying to ward off the strange pain by holding his palm over it. Pushing and rubbing his face into a decent dent in the stiff pillow, he sighed.

Whatever it was, it would go away. It always did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next day Sam decided to take the car and go to the university himself to comb through their library.

Dean wished him well, preferring the feel of the bed than anything else. He felt weird enough to pop a few aspirin, cursing his luck. The truth was he couldn't remember ever feeling this degree of bad before. His lungs were clear, his head and nose unclogged. But he felt thin and pale and ultimately less like himself.

Queer would be the word he'd use.

He could think of very few things a full day's rest did not fix. So he slept. Or tried to. His head ached, keeping him on the edge of full sleep for hours. The blur of the beige curtains that did almost nothing to blot out the sunlight wavered as his eyes closed for the last time. When the black finally blissfully did come, he felt every strand of discomfort that tethered him to waking break one by one. But for some reason last thing he saw before he was gone completely was the fine straight line of blue.

Curving softly, it settled into the shape of the waning moon.

Hanging there silently in a night sky that didn't have one single star in it at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

His dreams were lit with the washed out white of moon light, vague shadows echoing a deeper ache which thrummed in time with his pulse. But the dream pain was fragile and strange and in no way did it ready him for the waking.

Opening his eyes slowly, he groaned at the agony that had settled between his hips.

The room was almost dark. A glance at the clock showed him that the afternoon was long gone and the night was settling in. Flexing his hands, he started to stretch, hoping the pain that had gathered would dissipate and fade with the dream. A scent he knew made him blink, grimace and swear he was mistaken. Rolling slowly off his side onto his back, he paused. The sheets felt cold, almost wet. Sliding his hand under the blanket, he pulled it back out.

His hand was bright red.

“What the—“

Sitting up, he flipped the blankets back, the entire middle of the white bottom sheet a wide circle of blood, darker at the edges were it had dried, slick on the skin of his thighs, the wet material of his boxers sickeningly cold as they moved sluggishly over his flesh. Unable to catch his breath, he ran his hands over his abdomen, checking for the wound that would have bled this badly. In the gray dim light under the curtain edge he could barely see anything.

Stumbling to his feet, a wash of dizziness made him stumble, his vision flashing white as he felt his knees hit the carpet. Grasping the bed’s edge he slowly pulled himself up, the churn sharp pain in his gut doubling with his movements. Staggering in the bathroom he fumbled for the light. All he could see was bright red blood. On his hands, all over his stomach, his legs-- another wave hit him and he clutched the sink, a shaking hand twisting the faucet, the blood on his hands making everything damp he touched pink, the sink suddenly swirling with it. It was about then that he caught his refection in the mirror.

The slow wave of nausea flowed through him again.

It was some kind of trick. Some kind of charm.

Whoever it was looking at him with wide eyes in that bathroom mirror wasn’t him.

Leaning closer to the glass, he blinked and raised a trembling hand just to see if the action would be mimicked in the reflection. It was then that he saw his eyes were still there. Slowly his wet hands came to his face, touching it gently as if it might not be real. It was his face. Somehow his face but changed in a thousand inexplicable ways, the contours softened, the shape of his jaw less severe. His quaking fingertips stayed on the soft flesh below his eyes. He couldn’t tell if his eyes looked larger or his face appeared smaller, the skin under his finger tips was not the rough feel of three days of beard but sickeningly smooth and seemingly too thin. It felt like it could be ripped if he dug his fingernails into it too hard, tore if he pulled at it.

Running his hands through his hair, he felt it was the same, looked the same.

He heard himself make some kind of noise. Of disbelief. Of horror. His gaze falling to his bare chest, the muscles of his arms leaner and finer, running down to the flat of his stomach. His hands went to the new flesh that hung heavy and strange there. Pushing down at it hard as if the act would make them go away, pushing until he felt pain burn from new nerve endings he’d never had before. Clawing at it, the flesh was red and raw, the acute pain furthering the terrible truth that what he saw was nothing but real.

Backing against the wall he heard himself whimper, a small lost sound, his hands pushing at the soaked fabric of his boxers, falling in a tangled wet clump at his feet, his hand running down between his legs to fine smooth short soft hair slicked with blood, the flesh sloping between his thighs into nothing. His stomach heaved again, he just made it to the toilet, the contents of his stomach burning up this throat, the hot wetness between his legs running freshly down onto the white tile.

Where was it coming from? He frantically felt between his legs and down the insides of his thighs, he couldn’t feel anything but the odd feel of too smooth flesh. The absence of the friction of hair. Leaning over the bowl, he found himself looking at his red hand. It was too small. The fingers too slender.

“Oh god—“

He froze when he heard the motel lock turn.

Scrambling on his knees he fumbled for the bathroom door and slammed it shut. Sitting on the floor, he tried to will his heaving chest to calm, tried to will his shaking hands to still just for a moment. Give him a moment just to think—

The sharp agony in his belly roiled gain, doubling him over on the floor, panting.

“D-Dean?”

Alarm in Sam’s voice. He’d let himself in and he’d seen the bed by now.

There were three strong knocks on the door.

“Uh, Dean? What’s going on?”

Staggering to his feet, he almost fell backwards, his balance so off it was like he’d tried standing up for the very first time. Catching his hand on the sink edge he plunged his bloodied hands into the running water.

“Just-just a minute.” He managed.

The sound of his voice stilled him. It was his, but it wasn’t. It was finer, an octave too high, too smooth like his skin.

“You okay?”

He could see Sam standing out there, looking back and forth from the stained bed to the weird locked bathroom door they never closed even in each other’s company.

“Dean open the door.”

Dean moaned, sinking back down onto his knee as he felt something inside of him feel like it had started to rip. He knew he was going to throw up again but he couldn’t move from where he was crouched. It came again, harsh and brutal, and he cried out, clenching his teeth and clutching his hand over the base of his stomach. He shivered from hot to cold, vaguely aware that he was now naked and that by now the once pristine white bathroom now looked like someone had been murdered in it.

“I’m coming in.”

“N-No-“ Dean gasped, hearing the first hard impact of his brother’s shoulder up against the flimsy motel door.

The second shove was all it needed.

The door flew back on its hinges and Sam was there, one foot already inside, his face set to demand answers until he caught sight of the room. He looked down at Dean and then his gaze flickered quickly over the mess all over the toilet, the sink, and the broad crimson smears left all over the floors.

“Oh my God.” Sam breathed.

Dean felt his mouth open and close. His relief at seeing his brother mixed with some urgent need to hide from him, take this sight and whatever strange thing his body had somehow changed into, away.

"S-Sam..." He croaked weakly.

Dean could see what it all looked like, what he looked like, right there in the carefully controlled startled stare of his brother’s eyes.

But something hadn't registered.

"Do... do I know you?" Sam asked.

Using one hand to right himself to something close to a sitting position, Dean held onto one knee to keep his legs drawn up tight as they could go towards his chest. It relieved the pain for some reason just by a little bit. The pain was so intense that just a little bit was good enough for him. His cheek against the wall kept him upright, his other hand felt behind him until he felt the bathtub. Using those two points to ground himself, he steadied his gaze at his stunned brother.

He had to say something. He had to explain what he couldn’t. He didn’t know what was happening, he didn’t know—

“Ah shit—“ Another wave of sick forced him to lean forward and grasp the toilet.

A hesitant hand was on his shoulder, Sam was kneeling down next to him.

“I don- I don’t know what—“ Dean rasped over the toilet water.

“Look, it-it’ll be ok. Tell me your name?"

The horrible knots in his belly tightened, and his red flecked knuckles turned white on the porcelain. “S-Something—something happen—“

There was nothing left to come up, but the pain inside tore on, much lower than his churning stomach, centered so low that he had never been so keenly aware that the small expanse of flesh existed on his body before. With a shudder and a sudden tightening of muscle he felt a fresh warmth run down the inside of his sticky thighs and pool around his knees. Light headed, Dean blindly groped for Sam, catching him on his jacket collar, clutching onto him as the pain kept swelling and shattering against his insides like a ruthless tide.

He felt Sam's body recoil slightly even as his arms moved to steady him.

"Hey, hey talk to me…"

Dean felt his head suddenly buzz, light with the glare of the over head mirror lamps. He felt hands gather him up, his body easily handled, easily lifted, too light, his weight meaningless.

“Can you hear me?”

Sam had that waver in his voice when he was actually scared. Frightened by something he wasn’t sure how to handle. Dean wanted to reassure him somehow. Wanted to tell him it was fine even if it wasn’t true. The bare bulbs above him got brighter and brighter.

They blurred into one blinding mass growing and then dimming until he couldn’t see anything else at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dean roused to the roar of water pouring down into the bathtub.

Seated up against the wall, he was wrapped in a large white blanket, the front of it stained pink and red. The floor had been wiped almost clean. He couldn’t see the sink. The feel of his too thin legs shuddering under the terry fabric reminded him of what his body must look like under it. He swallowed back another wave of sickness.

He heard the dull tones of Sam working his cell phone.

“N-No.”

“Don’t worry.” Sam muttered. “I’m just calling my—“

"No calls.” Dean heard himself say angrily.

He watched Sam turn at the sound of Dean’s phone ringing in response on the opposite side of the wall. Right in his jacket where he left it. His brother’s face shifted from vague worry to troubled confusion.

“D-Don’t move okay? I’ll be right back.”

Sam left him alone for a moment, moving around in the room beyond, making Dean start to fear maybe Sam had already called someone while he was out of it. The police maybe or even a hospital. Panic flared and quickened his already pounding heart. However, if he had either of the two would have been here by now. Sam was dealing with this like Dean probably would have. Moment by moment, putting out the fires until the smoke cleared enough for him to figure out what he should do next.

“Drink this.”

A cold glass, water condensed and beaded on its sides was placed in his hands. The water was fizzing.

“Wha- what is it?” His voice was rasping, like he’d spent a night smoking cigarettes or screaming too loud at a music concert. Swallowing painfully, his licked at his lips.

“It will make you feel better.”

Dean tipped the cool glass to his lips and drank down the bitter bubbly stuff as quickly as he could. The cool liquid did sooth this throat, his dry tongue suddenly saturated, a small piece of his unflagging illness bating for just a moment. The glass was taken out of his hands.

“Just gonna get you cleaned up.”

Dean tensed at the sound of those words. He drew back as hands reached for the blanket that covered his now altered body. The body that had changed into something else. Something strange. He didn’t want anyone to see it. He didn’t want to see it.

Hands went under his arms and before he could protest he was lifted easily to his unsteady feet, then lifted again until his feet rested ankle deep in the hot boil of the tub. The blanket he clutched was pulled out on either end to release him while shielding his body from any kind of view before the curtain was drawn back. Dean crumbled down limply in the shallow water, the overhead spray from the shower already mixing the pure bath pink. Looking down, he saw his legs were the worst of it. He could see Sam’s shadow through the curtain, seated on the closed toilet seat. Elbows on his knees, his hands rubbing at his face.

“Who- who are you?”

Dean paused while numbly dragging a hand up to hold one knee. His scars were still were they always had been. His colors and flaws all taken and remade, set back in place but onto some other frame. So different but so much the same— Suddenly freezing in place, he quickly looked at the inside of his arm. The blue line. It was still there. Faded even a little bit more than he remembered but still there.

Dean didn’t know how to start talking. He didn’t know how to use words to prove or describe anything. Ripping back the plastic curtain, Dean met Sam’s confounded eyes. Sam immediately tried to look off to the side, avoid the nudity of this bizarre stranger that he’d discovered half crazed in his motel room.

Dean held out his arm, the underside out.

“Look.”

Sam was staring hard at the opposite wall, one knee bouncing in agitation.

“Damn it, LOOK!” The stern yell morphed into some petty soft protest. A muted tantrum. Subdued and weak. It made Dean sicker just hearing what was left of his voice as it echoed off the tiles.

Sam’s gaze flickered away from the wall and reluctantly down at the arm Dean was holding out.

Sam blinked at it. He blinked again before he took the arm in his own hands and studied it closely. He paused even further when he saw the white slash that zigzagged across the wrist from the time Dean had caught it on the top of a chain link fence. The minute grazes and stark round scar tissue of suture points that canvassed Dean’s flesh were better than any ID on the planet.

He finally looked back up and straight into Dean’s eyes. He saw the shape of them. The color of them. What burned just behind them. Sam’s baffled and suspicious glare suddenly all at once disintegrated, and he was looking at him. Really looking at him.

“Holy shit.” Sam whispered.

The arm Dean was holding up suddenly went limp in Sam’s hands.

"Oh-oh god. Y-you gotta...gotta help me, Sam.”

Dean felt his body start to shudder. Unaware of what was happening he involuntarily wrapped his arms across his naked chest. His lungs seized and then seized again, and then before he knew it, a hot crush of tears were flowing down his cheeks, unchecked and unstoppable. Shivering with the brutality of them, he gripped his hands desperately under his knees, the blinding raw feel of helplessness and vulnerability so overwhelming that he couldn’t stop to even form words.

Startled by the violence of it, he choked on the raw emotional dredging from what seemed like the very bottom of his being. It was nothing he’d ever felt in any shape form or matter in his entire lifetime. It was mindless crushing sensation beyond his grasp. It was every emotion he kept under tight control at all times. Guarded. Unattended. Unneeded. Sam was suddenly there, sliding into the slurry of pink water, sitting up behind him even though he had all his clothes on, he pulled his arms up around Dean’s and squeezed as tight as he probably could.

Adrenaline that had made him lightheaded and weak now flooded through him in disgusted rage.

"Get the hell off me!" He growled, thrashing in Sam's hold. He fought, elbows digging into the broad hardness of Sam's chest but his brother was solid and he didn't even seem to feel the blows.

"J-Just calm down!" Sam grunted as one of the strikes met its mark.

"Fuck you!" Dean snarled, bucking again in his grip. His chest heaved, eyes burning.

Dean wanted to say more. He wanted to tell him not to touch this freakish body his own had shifted to against his will. He wanted to punch him in the face for humiliating him this badly, hating how his now small and slender hands were grasping onto his brother’s arms as if it was the only thing that would keep him from shifting any farther away to disappear completely.

It was becoming hard to breathe. Oh god… why couldn’t he stop?

He could feel Sam's breathing against his back, familiar and steady. Shaking, he finally found enough to reign it back, stop the horrible keening sounds that were coming out of his mouth. Eventually he went limp, felt the rock hard grip around him relax. Spent and panting, he closed his eyes, shoulders shivering with soft ebbing sobs. Vaguely, he realized something, blinking up into the warm chaotic spray of the shower.

For the first time in years, crying had never felt so good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m dying.”

“Well, actually, yer not.”

“I know what death feels like Sam, and this is it.”

The sound of his own words in that creaking newborn throat offended him. He didn’t like talking. He didn’t like how it sounded coming through these new sets of vocal cords.

“You were marked,“ Sam sat back and sighed patiently. “And now you are being punished."

"Great."

Sam continued reading from the tome. Glimpsing the pages, Dean caught brief snatches of illustration. Dark blue inked designs swirled like vines across the harsh, beautiful face of the deity.

"For any man that profanes the cleanliness of my House shall suffer my womb and my flesh."

Dean closed his eyes. The words were making him cringe.

“Well, she got you good,” Sam had the audacity to try to hide most of his smile. “You've got the curse."

Dean blinked at him from where he’d crawled into a sprawl on the bed. Curse? Sam was going to have to get a whole lot more specific.

“The curse of all curses,” Sam folded the book shut. “The woman’s curse.”

Dean frowned.

He knew what that curse was all about. Some tears at a Hallmark commercial, some Midol and eating lots of ice cream? That was not what he was undergoing right now at this moment. This was some new brand of it, made up to extra especially horrible just for him. Women didn’t do this every month. They couldn’t. Society would crumble. There would be fires and rioting in the streets.

“I dunno Sammy,“ Dean rolled tighter into a ball, trying not to feel how much smaller his form felt. “I think I have something else. Check again.”

“Dean, all you need is a heating pad and some herbal tea.” Sam informed him.

If he had the energy he would have gotten up and decked him one. A heating pad didn’t sound like a bad idea though. Anger shifted to shame as the thought of how he had utterly and totally lost his shit in the shower. That little episode was even more confusing and baffling than what his body now looked like. The ridiculousness of it made the muscles in his jaw tighten. It was like he was losing his fucking mind along with everything else.

“Look, while you were sleeping I went out and got you some stuff…. You know… to uh, use?”

He wasn’t aware he had slept long enough for Sam to leave and come back again without his knowing. Rolling over to look where his brother was gesturing, Dean spotted the ten or so plastic bags that Sam had left on the far side of his bed.

“What the hell is all that?”

“Just-Just read the instructions and just um, take care of it, ok?”

Reluctantly, Dean leaned over and pawed through the closest one.

“Tampons Sammy? You bought me fucking tampons?”

Sam bit at his lower lip and started paying hard attention to whatever it was on his laptop. “Yeah? They’re for—“

“I know what they’re FOR but what the hell do you want me to DO with them?”

Sam was suddenly all business, he leaned forward and pushed his computer shut and closed. That never meant a good thing. Being lectured by Sam was one of things Dean strode hard through life to purposefully avoid.

“Dean.” Sam began pointedly. “I don’t wanna be your 8th grade health class teacher but this is how it has to be.”

Dean scowled at him while trying to punch his stiff pillow into a more accommodating shape. His body suddenly fit into everything differently now, even pillows.

“You? You are now a girl—“

“I am not a fuckin’ girl—“

“And apparently if that wasn’t exciting enough, you are a girl on her menstrual cycle,” Sam told him. “That means you have to take care of it.”

“I won’t leave this room!” Dean countered. “I can just bleed right here until I die.”

“No?” Sam rubbed the spot between his eyes. “You can’t bleed anywhere you want to, you have to w-wear something so it doesn’t get all over the freakin place.”

“Why not?” Dean snorted. “Bout time I left one of these roach motels even worse off than I found it.”

"Because you’ll attract bears.”

Dean was in no mood for any laughing or anything that remotely resembled any merriment at the moment. But he couldn’t help it, he felt himself smile before he had any decent chance of squashing down into the grim dark expression he felt like holding onto.

“It’ll pass Dean,” Sam said softly. “It will go with the cycle.”

“Just like that?” Dean asked doubtfully.

“According to this?” Sam sat back with the large book with a sigh. “Just like that.”

“I’m not leaving this room.” Dean repeated, finding what looked like some kind brillo pad with wings.

It felt like an affliction. All that accompanied the concept of She was not at all how he and the rest of the world envisioned. It was gruesome. It was awkward. It was painful.

No wonder women hid it all so well.

All the things he enjoyed about them in his life. Their smell, their shape, their pliant bodies and how equally hungry they could be. The thought made his insides clench and throb with a relentless warmth that made him ill. He felt a tired he'd never felt even after the longest of his nights.

He closed his eyes and willed himself not to have one single dream.

Not even a pleasant one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dean avoided the mirrors.

He found that the only pair of pants he owned that would stay on his body were the sweat pants he usually didn't have to tie up top. He sure as hell had to now. He didn't let his hands linger anywhere on himself for too long. The alien feel of the arc of his limbs and uncomfortable hollows made his jaw clench.

"How are ya feeling?"

Dean really wished Sam would stop asking him that. He also really wished Sam wouldn't look at him anymore either. He could feel him watching him even when they weren't talking, turning away when Dean forced eye contact to make him stop. He realized he hadn't answered his brother's question.

Sam cleared his throat from across the room.

"This-- this isn't just happening to you Dean."

Those type of sentiments always pissed Dean off. That we're in this together crap worked all well and fine when you all actually were. But Sam wasn't the one with what felt like a telephone book between his legs taped down into his underwear, and Sam wasn't the one that had to move in a different skin.

"I mean, I did have to go shopping down the maxipad aisle like I was on some game show and had to spend a hundred bucks under 1 minute--"

The pillow Dean hurled smacked his brother nicely right in the face. Nice to know his aim wasn't off. He caught himself in the mirror as he turned to flop back into his unmade bed. Jesus, he looked strange. The lines, shapes, slopes and angles that made him a man were all shifted right to the other side. What it left wasn't exactly what anyone would call beautiful. It was more like some awkward new adolescence to his features, his hair chopped too short to make any kind of sense, the muscles of his former self reordered but still prominent.

If he saw this chick he'd wonder what freak show she just busted out of.

"You didn't eat much." Sam was picking up the styrofoam containers that were left on the table.

The truth was Dean had eaten so much he thought he was going to start puking again. He couldn't put down even close to half of what he usually did. But he didn't feel like cluing in Sam to this recent and delightful new fact. He might have tried to eat more a little later on but the Chinese take out Sam had gotten didn't taste all that good anyway. Like it was off or too old even though he had just picked it up that evening.

"Shouldn't go back to that place," Dean muttered into the mattress. "Smells weird."

Sam lifted one of the carton's up to his nose and sniffed it for himself. "Seems fine to me."

Dean shut his eyes. That was another thing. For some reason the world suddenly just smelled. He could smell the cheap soap in the sheets. Their laundry in the corner. Sam even seemed to give off waves of scent when he walked past him in the room. He didn't smell any different. Just stronger, sharper and heavier. Dean felt his brow furrow when he tried to explain it even to himself. Everything was just more of what ever it already was.

Rolling onto his back he absently slid his hand down the front of his sweat pants and cupped the protruding wad of netted cotton wedged between his legs. He'd read the neatly folded paper he'd found in the tampon box and decided there was no way in hell he was trying that fucking procedure out without some kind of professional present. The alternative was uncomfortable and disgusting but he didn't have much of a choice. Of course there was this new scent that was somehow everything he was concentrated into a deep moist heat settled between his legs. And the blood of course. The smell of old blood was nothing new to him. He moved his hand lower, between his thighs where the familiar hanging weight of his flesh was simply just no longer there.

Grinding his jaw, he swallowed down hard, his hand tightening on the bulky pad under his palm.

He looked at the window. The sun was just going down leaving it that time of day that he always really liked. The sky was always at its best right there in that delicate span of not even an hour. Scarlet and purple. Calm and quiet. It suddenly occurred to him that he'd kept his word and hadn't left the room for almost an entire three days. With a deep breath, he sat up and dug around the bottom of his bed until he found his boots. He knew they weren't going to fit but he didn't care. Thinking about it for a second, he pulled on two extra pairs of socks. Pulling the laces tight he stood up thinking that it wasn't too bad. Tugging at the T-shirt he'd been laying around for one too many days he yanked it off up over his shoulders and looked around for his duffel bag.

Sam was watching him from behind his laptop.

"Drink it in Sammy." Dean forced a smirk, finding some kind of sick glee in the hope of making his brother as uncomfortable as he felt. "It's all for free."

"Very funny," Sam mumbled. "What are you doing?"

"Taking a walk." Dean answered.

With a slight smile he found the smallest shirt he owned, something he only wore when he was out of just about everything else because it hugged his arms and chest too tightly. He always felt like a big douche bag when he had it on, disturbed to be mistaken for someone that wore that kind of shit on purpose.

It still hung down past his waist but that was okay because it covered up the cinched tied top of his sweat pants. Man, with this get up he looked like some homeless dude. His hands moved in annoyance over his chest, shifting around the weight there like it would go away if he did. The leather could cover all that up. If he walked with his head down no one would even notice him as anything but some whatever just taking a stroll down the street. Grabbing a coffee. Looking for a paper. Maybe going to the corner to that little convenience store for a pack of smokes.

"When are you coming back?"

Dean was zipping up his jacket, sighing at how long the sleeves traveled over the end of his hands. He experimentally rolled one back and found it did the trick.

"Dunno," Dean shrugged, checking for his wallet and wondering if he tried to pick up some beer if someone would actually ask him for his driver's license. "Whenever."

Sam was suddenly up on his feet, digging under the sheets of his bed for his own coat.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked.

"Coming with you."

"Ya know, the point of a walk is to get the hell away from you for a while." Dean liked how being smart ass sounded just the same no matter what freaking body he had.

"I could use the air." Sam said.

Dean didn't like the fact that he was now about eye to eye with his brother's collar bone. It made him immediately frustrated and angry that the look he could give Sam as a man would have made his little brother back off. Think twice. But not now.

"I know you're doing your best to fucking ignore it Dean," Sam murmured as he zipped up his own jacket and yanked up his hood. "But you aren't exactly the same person anymore."

He didn't like the way Sam said it. He didn't like the honest deep down fear under the words. Like it was a sentence. As if this was going to be the way it was going to be forever.

"It's just a walk," Dean heard himself say as he watched Sam slip a pistol into the back of his jeans. "What's- what's going on?"

But he knew exactly what was going on. He backed up until his legs hit the bed, fighting not to let the miserable humiliating burn in his eyes turn into anything else. This was how it was going to be? Now that he was a few inches shorter and had to wear diapers he couldn't go out after dark all by himself? He was now some crime waiting to happen just because he had tits? His hands rose absently to his hidden chest.

Fucking small ones at that.

Dean straightened his back and worked his fists in his pockets. If this was how Sam wanted to play this fun new game than he could knock himself out.

"Fine." He mumbled even though Sam hadn't answered him. "Gonna just hit the head first."

Sam didn't question him shutting the bathroom door anymore. He also didn't start knocking when Dean didn't reappear after some normal amount of time. Twisting on the water over the sink, he slipped behind the shower curtain making sure he didn't move it one inch on its noisy rack.

In a way, this body finally worked out for him in a way he wouldn't have considered before. His real body would have never fit through the narrow stretch of window that ran along the shower ceiling. Dropping down onto the gravel of the back of the building, Dean grinned a real genuine heart felt grin with the full deep sky and the first deep breath of real air he'd had in a while. Quickly trailing the back on the complex and hitting the sidewalk, he doubled his pace to put himself as far away from that room and Sam as could. Grimacing when he found that the simple act of walking had gained a whole new aspect unto itself, he ducked his head down and just tried to look as natural as possible.

He was about three blocks away when his phone started ringing. Pulling it out, he almost answered it. Instead, he shut it off. He wanted to go somewhere dark and crowded. Some place noisy and distracted with its own chaos. Clutching the dead phone in his pocket, he relished the thought of Sammy standing in that bathroom and looking at the screen he'd pulled out.

If he wanted to take a damn walk he was going to take a god damn walk.

What the hell could happen?

Yanking up his jacket collar, he took a turn down an alleyway to save time and keep himself out of sight if Sam decided to go on patrol. Cursing himself for not snaking the car keys he edged around a dumpster and emerged on a blissfully unlit street. Taking a left where he figured Sam would think he'd make a right, he headed towards the edge of town where he'd seen some bars the days and nights ago when they'd first pulled in. He could have used a lot of things right at the moment. But what he really wanted was a drink.

A stiff combustible drink.

Maybe even two or three.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's 'plight' continues. I have no idea how to rate this thing. Is it F/F is it Dean/OC is it OC'/girl!dean... i dunno.

The pool stick felt all wrong.

He should have expected that but for some reason he didn’t. It forced him to think of every weapon and blade he'd ever owned, things familiar to his hands as a kitchen knife. Hefting every weight and knowing the range of every motion he’d long since past memorized now redefined or utterly meaningless.

The 6 bounced off the corner pocket. The redefined part was pretty fucking humiliating. Not to mention frustrating. The guy he was playing with laughed a little into his beer. He was one of those guys that didn’t know when to stop broadcasting his amusement on the failure of others. That forced brazen smile whenever someone slipped up at their own expense, that fake laugh he made just loud enough so that he made sure everyone around heard it.

Guys like this were usually the kind Dean would have had a few words with, maybe even a little more. He’d never had a problem about having a problem with just about anyone if there was more than good reason. But not now. Gnawing at his lower lip, he fought every word that wanted to come out of his mouth. Every comment, every threat, every easy word to the tired but pretty waitress that was working the scattered tables and the bar.

When he had walked in all his intentions of forgetting his body and just acting human went right out the window.

He was used to the subtle changes in a nearly empty room when a stranger entered it. He’d been in enough late night dives to know when the door opened, everyone turned to look for various reasons. Was it the guy with the tab? The chick that always drank too much and danced by herself until someone took her home? A drive through? An old friend?

But when he walked in, he didn’t get the once over that he usually got. The looks settled, curious and open. Watching for where he went to seat himself at the bar. Turning and talking in low voices to their friends that were doing the same. Thankful that no ID had been asked for, Dean sank back a glass of harsh amber whiskey and decided to ignore it all and just play a few games on the old table he spotted in the back. In a way, he more or less fit right in. The old plywood floors, the dirty ashtrays, and the creaking bathroom door on a spring were what made these types of places a home away from home. This was a place where no one came dressed up or looking for anyone that was.

“You in the army?”

He almost laughed but he didn’t want this guy to think anything he did or said amused him in anyway.

“Just got out.” Dean spoke without thinking. Better explanation that anything he could come up with to explain why he looked like he just got back from a dykes on bikes rally.

Dean wondered if that quick glass of hooch was factoring into his spectacularly crappy game. Figured he’d put a twenty down on it. He watched the asshole with the threadbare ‘Patriots’ ball cap pocket it and ask him if he’d like to take another ride.

The way he said ride made Dean want to get back into a shower. Despite the ravishing saggy sweat pants he was boasting, alongside his boots that didn’t get much love even when he was the right person wearing them, this guy was looking at him like sex had just appeared in the image of... well, not much.

Dean glanced over at the leather jacket he’d cast off on the back of a barstool so he could play. He hadn’t really thought about the fact that he was pretty much wearing nothing but a T-shirt with nothing keeping his new found chest in any kind of control while he shot pool. Catching another look at himself in the mirror behind the bar he really had to hand it to some guys. It didn’t take much to get the boys started. Maybe it was just a matter of statistics. Dean seemed to be one of the three unattached females in the room. One was working. One was on the telephone. And that left the weird chick with no bra that just lost 20 bucks and was maybe good for another 40.

It had never really occurred to him what he could do in his body. There had never been any kind of visualization of any concept of what now someone else could do to it. It was like staring at the weird cross section diagram in that tampon box. He was sure it was all completely and horrifically possible but none of it pertained to him. Sam had been absolutely right when he said Dean had been ignoring it. He wasn’t just ignoring it. He was denying the very existence of it all.

Now in the presence of other human beings, he realized this could have repercussions.

“Whatta ya say?” The guy asked again, chalking his cue and smiling that overblown smile.

“No thanks.” Dean mumbled.

He had to go to the bathroom anyway.

Half way through the men’s room he cursed and backed out of it quickly. No one noticed, and he figured if they had no one would care anyway. It hadn’t occurred to him to bring any of the hundreds of supplies Sam had been kind enough to stock him with. Pissed off that the oversight might have to force him back to the motel, he was a little surprised and relieved when he saw there was a machine on the wall that took quarters. It was covered in pink flowers and shit so he figured for sure it was all about exactly what he needed. Looking around even though he knew he was alone, he put a few coins in, thinking how in the men’s john there was always a machine too but it was for condoms.

A tampon rolled out.

Scowling, Dean chucked it hard at the garbage can. He’d rather shove a rolled up newspaper down there than deal with that noise. Ducking into a stall he fumbled with his drawstrings, the urge to relief himself battling with the notion that he had to sit down. It was about then that he saw the enormous wad of cotton that he’d hatefully positioned in his underwear that day.

It was clean.

Blinking at it, Dean poked it thinking maybe somehow he had been fooled. Sam said the cycle had to go its course and it had only been three days? The book they’d found was vague of the length but it implied something more like a week. Sam had made the educated guess of precisely 7. Moon phases, mystical numerology, all that crap.

Standing up, Dean let out a small sigh, making and remaking a fist a few times. Bracing one hand on the wall he let his other hand move slowly down between his legs. He hadn’t touched himself since it happened. Not really. He hadn’t gone to the money shot of all money shots. Even when he showered he just passed roughly over it with a wash cloth and hoped for the best.

Slowly, tentatively, he moved a finger around the anatomy he knew fairly well from a very different perspective. He knew where to check if he was still bleeding. He shut his eyes at the feel of the sensation of something entering his own body. It was like having some kind of … open wound that never closed. It was so suddenly and incredibly terrifying that his own hand could push too far, that he would hurt himself—

He quickly withdrew his hand, panting and feeling his thighs shaking slightly. Studying his fingertips for blood, he saw none.

With a relief he hadn’t remembered ever feeling quite that profoundly, he ripped the giant pad away, the sound like some military adhesive off canvas. He was pretty sure you couldn’t flush the things without backing up the entire city’s water system but he quickly spotted a small trash can that had mysteriously toilet paper wrapped lumps in it.

“Huh.” Dean said.

Copying his predecessors, he was back out washing his hands methodically at the small pastel pink sink in no time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was past midnight and Dean knew that leaving his phone off for this long had now gone over the line of callous and right on into cruelty.

Truth be told, he was more than surprised Sam hadn’t found him already. Every time the door opened he figured it would be the tall angry form of his brother, maybe with a cocked shot gun ready to fire into the ceiling to make it all pleasantly circumspect. Sipping the good stuff slowly at the bar had been the most relaxing thing he’d felt in a real long time. The absence of ten metric tons of netted cotton between his legs brought a smile to his face. He was feeling buzzed and amicable enough that a phone call with Sammy wouldn’t be a bad thing at all. Even when Sam started yelling, Dean knew that just about nothing at all could ruin the fine even calm of his mood. Pulling out his phone, he hit the first number on his directory list.

Dean?

“Christ, did the phone even ring—“

Where the hell are you? It’s almost 1AM.

“Don’t get your panties in wad.” As soon as he said it, Dean felt the laughter squeeze out of him, the back of his hand running across his eyes. Man, he was a little drunker than he thought he was. “Ev-Everything is fine. It’s A-Okay.”

You’re drinking. You’re at a bar? I checked every bar in this hole Dean, I checked—

“Didja check that thing that looks like a double wide trailer down on- on the other end of that Exxon truck stop? Because guess what, it’s not a trailer it’s a—“

Don’t fucking move. I’m coming down there.

“It’s not my bedtime yet Sam.” Dean said as he leaned back and stretched.

It felt good to feel all his muscles relaxed for a change. The knots in his shoulders were history. The vague agony that had nestled between his hips was gone completely. Swirling the amber fluid in his thick glass he wondered why anyone bothered with medications when it was so easy to just skip straight to the bottle.

You’re a freakin’ jerk Dean.

Dean lost his smile when he heard that sound in Sam’s voice again. That real fear. The kind that never came out unless he was really there. Really feeling it. He thought again about how Sam must have found the open window in the bathroom and it didn’t seem as satisfying as it did before. It felt a little cruel. Like the hour.

“Look, I told you, I’m fine? Just-just go to bed, this place is gonna close up soon anyway—“

I’ll be there in five minutes.

“Sammy, wait—shit.”

The phone was dead. Dean was about to dial him back. Let him know that the double wide trailer at that Exxon station really was a trailer and that he was practically on the other side of town at a dive that sat alongside a boarded up pawn shop. It was right after a dip in the road and behind a railroad bridge. Easy to miss if you were in a car. Easy to find if you’re walking and could hear the music.

Resting his elbows on the bar, he started softly laughing again in a dazed disbelief before he could help himself. Oh Jesus, was Sam gonna be pissed off. Like kick in a car door pissed off. Like rip off a rear view mirror and toss it into the back wind shield pissed off.

Sobering a little, he decided he should probably call his brother back.

“Trouble?”

“Huh?” Dean didn’t see or hear the woman sit down next to him.

She smiled a little, wetting lips that were already a pretty pink tinge from some kind of lip gloss.

“I left my boyfriend home tonight too.”

Dean stared at her for moment until he made the connection that she had been listening in on his phone conversation. It figured he sounded like he was talking to his pissed off boyfriend. The thought made him smile again, the laugh he wasn’t used to hearing, light and kind of nice coming out of him easily as it ever did.

“He works out on the rig, ya know, most of the month?” She went on. “Comes home, all he wants to do is sleep and watch fucking NASCAR.”

He liked the shape of her face and her wide set milk blue eyes, there was something about it that made him think of old classic beauty. It reminded him of old paintings of porcelain colored women sitting around in those dresses. She didn’t have fancy ringlets of hair pooled on top of her head though. It was bleached and short, the dark roots showing on purpose. With a flick of her tongue, she wet her mouth before bringing her beer bottle back up to her lips.

Dean swallowed when he saw her tongue ring.

“T-That sounds…” Dean cleared his throat, suddenly at a loss of anything to say. “….sounds like more fun than a clown on fire.”

Dipping her chin down to swallow her beer and laugh at the same time, she gently swatted his shoulder.

“Yer funny.”

Her bare shoulders shook as she laughed again, and Dean felt his mouth fall open just a little bit when he realized he knew that sound and that look. This chick was flirting. With him. Like this. He knew whatever he was blathering out of his mouth was the most unfunny shit that this bar had probably ever witnessed. But he knew bait in a bar when he saw it and it was staring right at him.

The rush of heat to his face and more importantly where he usually expected it, was so fierce and unexpected he almost dropped his whiskey glass. Flustered, he tried to extract himself from the situation.

“I- I gotta go? Boyfriend at home, you know how it is—“

“You got a ride?”

Dean had probably never felt more confused at that moment than he had in his entire life. The conception, the very idea of this body doing anything other than disgust him hadn’t seemed like an even remote possibility. Dean shifted uncomfortably when they both stood and she was about a half a head taller. He dragged his jacket over his shoulders and made to follow her out the doors.

He heard the guy he’d played pool with made some kind of noise. Some vague exhale of repugnance behind their backs. Anger came back to a roiling simmer, the agony of not being able to walk up to the dude like he wanted to and scare him a little by doing nothing at all. Despite all the books and all the lib, he didn’t care what anyone said, the sexes were as far apart as the planets.

Sam was right. He wasn’t exactly the same person anymore. He dragged his hands through his hair and gripped the ends for second. Why had he drank so much? It didn’t seem like anymore than he usually would have downed on a particularly festive night, but he felt like he was on his way to being completely tanked. Stumbling on the last step at the bottom of the uneven stair he looked around.

The night had gotten colder.

There were only three cars in the weed choked parking lot and hers was the furthest, just behind the sweeping low branches of a weeping willow. When he got a look at her car he made a surprised face she couldn’t see. Last year’s version of the Chevy Impala didn’t look much like the ride in her glory days, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same.

She stopped by the trunk and made some kind of show of pausing to look up at the night sky. Dean looked up to see what she was pretending to look at. Ironically enough, it was a perfect sliver of the moon hanging far above the glittering street lights on the horizon. His dream just before it all happened briefly came back to him and he resisted pulling up his jacket sleeve to check his arm.

“Where are you from?”

Dean could use that question. He could use it just fine. He pulled the name of a town they had passed through a month ago out of his head. A town he knew she’d never heard of. He knew she didn’t really care anyway. The whiskey was buzzing nicely through his limbs and blood. Everything seemed good and comfortable. Almost.

He backed up a little when her hands slid under his jacket and moved over his hips. He could feel the shape of them defined by her fingertips, the way they sloped now instead of whatever the hell it was they did before. Blinking rapidly, he fought his instinct to shove her away, the sensation of her contact twisting his foggy brain in two different directions.

“Yer cute.”

No one had called him ‘cute’ since he was about ten years old. He supposed that was better than being told he reminded her of the circus freak he felt like. It actually put him a little bit at ease. He wasn't anything but what she saw. He wasn't anything twisted or changed. Trying to think of something to say back, he realized he could really smell her now that she was this close. The hollow of her neck was like perfume, the lingering scent of her shampoo and the heat of her skin, bare in the night air made him bite down hard on his lower lip. Her chest was leaning in against him. He’d always loved that feel. That soft weight pushing against everything about him that was all hard lines and angles. That warmth pressing up his body, easing into his hand to be gently held and explored. The space between his legs that was now blissfully absent of his sanitary needs suddenly was brought back to his attention.

It wasn’t completely alien. It wasn’t something like the opposite of what he’d always known, or something that made him nervous. It was a familiar heat but it was a lot more intense. Focused, making the muscles of his stomach flex and making him suddenly aware of the presence of her touch. He shifted in place, the bunched up material of his ill sized boxers rubbing him in ways that made a shiver run down his spine. The night didn’t feel quite so cold anymore, a light sweat had broken out all over his skin.

Somewhere in the haze of the drink he thought that maybe he should be going now. Tell this girl that it’s been fun and all but he had to hit the road and—

Dean made a small sound when her hands suddenly gripped him a little bit harder and before he knew it he was up on the Chevy’s trunk. Startled into grasping her arms, his heart pounded with some weird uncertainty of how to react. He had never been lifted without his permission in his adult life and especially not by some girl. He felt a rush of anger, of indignance and embarrassment. Who the hell did this chick think she was? Just because he said he needed a ride didn’t mean he wanted a ride. Gauging how much strength he thought he had in his arms, he was ready to at least attempt to push her ass back down onto the potholed parking lot.

He didn’t get the chance.

Dean made another startled sound when her mouth was suddenly closed over his, her tongue sweet with some mint she’d been chewing, soft and slow, treating him like he was something small that could break. Dean opened his eyes over the kiss to get another look at her. Damn this girl was aggressive. Where the hell were all the women like this when he was—

She had pushed herself to stand between Dean’s legs, making him spread his thighs wider than he ever had in his female lifespan. He did back away then, not liking how open it felt, how exposed he was even though he was still wearing all his clothes. She made a fist in the front of his jacket to keep him in place, the kiss still going a little harder and deeper this time. Dean was so distracted he didn’t notice until it was too late that her other hand was working its way up under his shirt.

Wondering vaguely if he was somehow being taken advantage of, Dean suddenly stopped his weak retreat as soon as her hand made contact with one side of his chest. Pressing him softly, a fingertip brushed against the sensitive skin and squeezed. Whoa. That felt… that felt like… he heard himself moaning a little into her smile, leaning forward into her hand even while his hands were gripped tight on the trunk’s edge, backing the rest of his body away.

The bar behind them suddenly opened up and the sounds of voices rose and fell in drunken laughter.

“It’s cold out here.” She whispered, sliding Dean down off the trunk as easily as she put him up there.

Confused and disoriented, Dean licked at his swollen wet lips and wondered if that meant this was all over. It couldn’t be over now could it? He knew what he would have done. He knew what move he’d make next but the rules weren’t even rules anymore, he might as well have been in another freaking dimension. He didn’t even know if he wanted it to be over. Shit. Clutching his swimming head again he remembered that he’d never called Sam back. His brother was probably fucking sinking the car out in a swamp by now.

The back door of the car opened.

“Get in.”

Wondering why he was doing what he was told, Dean let himself be pushed down into the darkness of the backseat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dean hadn’t been on his back in the back seat of many other cars before.

Ever.

Unsure of what exactly he was supposed to do, he tried to move with her, kiss back, touch back like he would with any woman at any other time. But- but this chick was stronger than he was. It had started predictably enough. Pleasantly enough. This girl liked to kiss. It made Dean wonder what that mouth could do on— well, it made him wonder anyway.

She started rubbing his stomach under his shirt, strangely enough, right over that spot that had been giving him hell for the past three days. He hadn’t realized it was a ploy to get down his pants. He was pretty sure that the presence of tits (hers, not his) hadn’t taken half of his IQ away, but the four glasses of Jack Daniels might have had a lot to do with his response time. The thought of it made him let his knees fall apart a little bit as she kept slowly kissing him, working his mouth so he could barely think let alone try to do anything rational.

He felt her hand slip down over his bare skin.

It was the first time since he’d let all of this start to happen that he panicked. He hadn’t expected it. Didn’t think the surge of it would feel so terrible. The sensation of fear at being touched revolted him so much he shoved himself backwards and twisted her wrist at a slight angle that he knew would make her stop. At least that was the plan. Instead, in his liquored grace he practically laid down for her. While he had stopped her wrist, her hand was already down between his legs, freezing him in place with her firm steady touch.

“Don’t- don’t do that.” Dean said, hissing when her fingertip slid down lower and pressed against an aching wetness that he sincerely hoped wasn’t more blood.

She ignored him. Panting uncontrollably, he wasn’t sure if he should be outraged or not.

Dean’s eyes closed, his knees falling apart further as the touch started into a slow stroke. Oh god. He knew this one. At least he thought he did. He knew what it usually did to women when he thought he was doing it right anyway. Her lips were on his neck now, kissing him softly under his ear as her hand worked him as slowly and deliberately as her kiss had.

He heard himself make some weird sound when her hands went to his drawstrings. He tried to pull her hands away but the loose fabric was already being pulled down his thighs. There was a small laugh when she spotted his boxer shorts.

“Nice.” She murmured, as she kissed him over the soft cloth then that was gone too.

Dean felt his head bang back against the armrest of the door and winced.

Bracing one booted foot up against the back windshield, his other knee held up over her shoulder. His hands flew backwards, gripping the round metal of the window opener, the other gripping hard onto the back of the passenger seat. The light sweat turned heavy, slick on the backs of his knees and beading over his lip.

“Oh my-- oh my god...”

Dean had done it before. Many times. With so many women in so many places he couldn’t sit down and tell a guy about them all if he tried. But he never knew, he didn’t know, he never expected, he had never known— holy shit, he'd almost forgotten about that fucking tongue ring.

She wasn’t holding him down but he felt like he couldn’t move, his thighs spread so far apart, her hands cupping him just enough to lift him to her mouth. He felt his eyes roll back when something even stronger started settle down on top of him. Like a burning weight. His entire body filled with some heavy sweet gauze, the edge he vaguely knew of for himself coming much steeper and slower than he’d ever thought could possibly happen.

And it… it just kept freakin’ going.

“Oh god...” He whimpered and felt his boot slip a little on the glass as his thighs started to shake.

A hand came up and pushed his shirt up to his neck, exposing him completely. He felt his skin react with the cool air despite how fogged up the windows had gotten, the faint heaviness of his chest moving with the slow steady jolt of her fingers as she started to fuck him with her hand along with her mouth.

Dean mortified himself with the sounds he started making then. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t keep one pitiful whimper back from the half pain pressed pleasure of the feel of the motion and friction working on the inside of the body he never should have even owned. The sweaty death grip he had on the front seat tightened even further.

“Ah fuck, fuck, oh fuck--”

When it hit Dean was surprised he didn’t kick out the back windshield.

He couldn’t breathe.

He sure as hell couldn’t see.

By the time he came back down he realized for the first time in his life after he’d come so hard that he for once, didn’t want to go directly to sleep. He felt awake, electric. Ready to go.

“Where are you stayin’?”

Dean blinked down at her in a dizzy haze.

“Wha-what?” He panted.

“You got somewhere to be?” She asked.

Dean thought of the motel room filled with plastic bags of unopened feminine need products. He thought about the look on his brother’s face when he finally appeared. He thought about the fist that might accompany the words that would come next.

“Nope.” Dean answered affirmatively.

“Why don’t you come back to my place?” She smiled, lips wet, chest pressed down between his legs.

“Wha- what about your boyfriend?” Dean was always good on the details no matter how sloshed he got. And this fun was all well and good but there were some limits he wasn’t going to cross unless some rufies were involved.

“Don’t got one.” She admitted with a small guilty turn of her head.

Dean laughed a little and lazily dug his hand through his jacket that was bunched up around his shoulders. The soft blue glow of his phone flickered to life.

32 messages. All marked: Urgent

Dean let his head fall back as he smiled. He could learn a thing or from this chick. In fact, he thought he might already have. He watched her right herself, looking for keys, glancing out the opaque windows for any sign that they had been observed.

More like heard.

He was still trying to get his clothes back on when the engine turned. He sat up and let himself be chauffeured to who knew where. Tipping his head back he got a good look at his boot print clear and perfect in a slight smear on the rear windshield.

That was a new one.

 

 

 

 

 

He groaned when he woke up to the harsh glare of sunlight.

Feeling for his watch he remembered he never put it on before he left the motel the day before. It sat too heavy and awkward on his wrist. It was easier just to look at his phone. Oh man. His phone.

Rolling off the bed, he picked up the first shirt he found which happened to be the black tank top the girl had been wearing last night. It felt good to put on something that fit his body more or less. Forgoing the search for his boxer shorts that he wasn’t even sure made it out of her car, he pulled up his gray sweats instead and moved quietly out of the room so he wouldn’t wake her up.

The clock on the wall of the apartment’s small kitchen said noon.

Fuck.

He had meant just to sleep off a little bit of his failing buzz after he’d showered with her in her cramped bathroom that barely had enough room for one let alone two of them. He hadn’t cared what she saw by then. She didn’t question all the scars and marks of violence all over his skin. But she did make one comment that made him smile a little bit.

“All that and you never once got inked?”

She herself boasted a coiled dragon undulating down a shoulder blade, its broad serene snout settled in the small of her back. It was colored every shade of red and almost metallic gold in her candlelight.

Nope. Never went down that road. He almost told her that his dad would have probably killed him but he decided to let it just be funny as it was. Sitting down on her soft sofa next to a cat he’d not noticed before, he laced on his boots, tied them on tight, tight enough and it was almost like they fit like they were supposed to.

He wondered if he should leave a note. A small message of something. Something of what he wasn’t quite sure. He knew he would never see her again, and if he did, he wouldn’t be the person she brought home. There was a pang of guilt there, as he thought that maybe he’d deceived this woman somehow.

Then he remembered being shoved mafia style into the back of her Chevy head first and thought maybe it didn’t really matter.

His jacket didn’t have his sunglasses, and it took him about a mile of walking before he realized just exactly where in town he actually was. It was about another mile after that before his hangover started to recede back just a little bit. Her place ended up being a little farther out than he’d suspected but that was okay. His legs felt like taking their time. Thankful that his phone battery was dead, he was glad that the conversation he’d eventually be having didn’t have to occur just yet.

It could wait a few more miles.

Sammy could get in all the punches and kicks he wanted. He deserved them all for the stunt Dean pulled last night. Dean knew he wouldn’t be very forgiving if the tables were turned. However, by the time he finally turned down the street that had the motel sign in sight, he started to second guess his willingness to confront Sam who had probably been up all night. With a deep breath, he shoved a few coins into the soda machine and power chugged a coke to get his brain kick started. The caffeine and sugar cleared some of the haze left in his head.

He didn’t have a key.

Great. He was gonna have to knock and then stand there and wait.

The car was parked right in front of the room which was at least one good sign. Sam hadn’t torched it with gasoline or just up and left him here, moving on to the next state without his new feeble sibling to worry about.

Bracing himself, he knocked.

There was the sound of movement inside the room, the brief pause at the spyhole, the longer pause before the lock turned. The door opened a few inches and was left like that.

Oh boy, here we go.

Sighing, Dean pushed the door open and stepped into the dark musty room he’d escaped the day before. Sam was sitting on his bed and apparently found his cell phone to be the most interesting thing he’d ever seen because he didn’t look up from it once, even after Dean tossed his jacket down and took a seat by the small table by the window.

“Well,” Dean tried. “I’ve got good news?”

Sam’s livid gaze flickered up at him, and Dean wished he hadn’t tried to draw any of that barely contained blistering attention towards himself on purpose.

“Bleeding's stopped.” Dean hitched his shoulders in a brief shrug. “Thought the cycle thing was what, 7 days?”

“I said I thought it might be.” Sam said curtly down towards the carpet.

Dean felt his brows rise and fall in renewed consideration. Maybe this thing was on its way out? Maybe this madness would be over with faster than he’d hoped. Life with Sam would be infinitely less bearable if that wasn't the case.

“I found the bar you were in.” Sam said simply.

“For a hole, this place sure has a lot of holes huh?” Dean half smiled, his hand finding a half open bag of pretzels and a hunger he didn’t know he had until he saw them.

“They said you left.” Sam continued. “With someone named Chris.”

Chris. Christine. So that was her name. Dean had never thought to ask. His hand rubbed the ribbed black tank he’d lifted from her floor. A little sorry that he stole something almost for the pure hell of it, he figured there were plenty other black ribbed tank tops out there in the world.

“So?” Dean asked, lifting his chin and daring Sam to say whatever it was he wanted so badly to say.

It was the tone he used when he wanted to taunt his brother into a challenge about what was what. The sound of it came out weak and didn’t come off anywhere near like he wanted it to but for some reason Sam did back down. The static of fury in his eyes blurring suddenly into weary concern.

“What happened to your face?”

“My face?” Dean assumed Sam meant something other than the obvious.

Turning to the latticed mirror behind the television, Dean caught the dark marks around his chin where a hand had held him in place. Other marks on his neck from fingers and a mouth. Looked like this silky smooth skin of his bruised like a peach. His chest hitching in a humorless laugh he wondered what his legs and his thighs must look like. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he did find it a little strange walking around with any normalcy the morning after.

If there was a god, Sam wouldn’t notice that small detail.

“They said you were trashed Dean, falling out the door with some guy named Chris and they didn’t even know his last name—“

“Hey, hey!” Dean held up a hand before Sam got riled up enough to get up onto his feet. “Chris was a woman and while she wasn’t exactly, well a gentleman, nothing happened. I slept at her place. Everything’s fine.”

Sam took another look at Dean’s face and didn’t say another word.

“Look, it’s been a really weird night?” Dean collapsed back into the stiff chair he was sprawled in. “I’m really tired and all I want is something to eat and a bed."

Sam slammed his phone down on the table between beds about hard enough to break it.

“I’m sorry Sammy.” Dean heard himself saying, his throat working. “I just lost track of the time.”

“That place was a fucking dump Dean.” Sam murmured. “It was the kind of place we go into armed if we had to at all.”

“I get it. Ok?” Dean rubbed his face, his hangover ebbing and flowing back and forth behind his eyes. “I fucking get it already.”

Sam leaned back further onto his bed, his exhaustion betraying him now that Dean was back under lock and key. Dean could see the lines of his arms tensed rock hard, his chest heaving slowly. His brother looked as though he had volumes more to say and Dean was silently grateful his brother was too weary and angry to even know where to start. He was fighting to keep his eyes closed, his drained wrath the only thing keeping him awake.

"Just...you don’t fucking get anything." Sam breathed out slowly, eyes fluttering. "You never fucking think."

Dean sighed, shrugging tiredly out of his leather jacket. He felt suddenly small, stupid and strangely guilty again. Did all girls get this kind of flack for a one-nighter? He'd never considered just what the cost was for his once most simple of pleasures. Dean decided right then and there that if this offended goddess wanted to exact her punishment on him indefinitely, he might need to consider some form of euthanasia.

"Sorry." He mumbled uselessly on his way to the fridge.

But Sam was already rolled over and half way into his denied sleep.

A cursory glance through the contents of the fridge yielded little more than a half-eaten sandwich. Dean shoved the remnants in his mouth and washed it down with the lukewarm coffee left sitting on the table.

The walk had left him feeling sweaty under his leather and dusty from the passing traffic. He still smelled like her apartment too and for some reason he wanted all traces of that off his skin and down a drain.

But first and foremost he wanted to crash

His head hit the pillow faster than he could think to pull the covers over his body. Instantly it all went away. The smell, the echo of hands on his skin, the ache in his bones and the feeling he'd just done something horrible.

To himself. To Sam. Maybe even that girl named Chris?

Pulling the stiff blanket up over his head, he decided to stop thinking long enough for his body to get the black out it needed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pain woke him.

Like an ice cold spike to the head, he sat up with a gasp. The room was too hot, his shoulders coated in chilled sweat. He felt heavy, dizzy and confused. The lights were still out, the weak and dying light outside painting the wall in shadows. He'd been out for hours.

Groaning, he lifted a hand to his stomach, massaged the throbbing ache there. It didn't work. His muscles cramped painfully again, making him hiss. Wondering blearily if that half bottle of booze was finally on its way out, he clutched his belly on his way to the bathroom. Blindly, he groped for the light switch and stumbled to the shower. Shedding the dirty and used clothes, their worn dank sweaty scent now strong enough to raise the bile in the back of his throat, he hastily turned on the water and stepped inside.

It was just what he needed.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the tiles and letting the warm spray of water cover his back like a blanket. He was shuddering, his body out of control once again, painful spasms like many tiny deaths wrenching him of control. It was out of his hands. Whatever his new body did or didn't, he would just have to bear it.

The thought made him want to drive his fist through the wall repeatedly.

Flipping his arm to look at the underside, he saw the dark blue line there, as fine and poignant as the night he had gotten slashed meticulously over his flesh. While he watched it grew thinner and thinner, down to the width of a hair. The clamor in his head and body deepening as it swiftly sucked itself back into the pigments of his skin.

"Stop." He whispered, eyes closed. "Just... s-stop."

And like that, it did.

He thought he'd only closed his eyes for a second.

Something new was hurting when he blinked them open again. The back of his head now throbbed sharply where he'd smacked it, his limbs in disarray, splayed around the edge of the tub. The water was hitting him directly in the face.

He’d fallen?

Dean slowly began to partially right himself with a grunt, fingers flying to the back of his head, checking for damage. His fingertips traced his lip, coming away slightly bloody. Must have bit it on the way down.

What the fuck had happened?

Carefully, he tested his too-heavy limbs.

His breath caught in his throat, hand flying to the firm straight contours of his chest. Heart racing, he braced his thigh and didn’t dare smile just yet. Lurching out of the water, face turned away from the mirror, he left the shower going behind him, pushing open the door and flipping on the stark lamp lights.

“Sam? Sammy! Wake up!”

His voice sounded solid. Like he remembered. He fought the smile that was winning despite his efforts. Shivering and drizzling water on the brown packed carpet, he watched his brother roll over slowly, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the offending light.

Daring to hope, Dean cleared his throat. “Well?”

Sam looked him up and down.

“Looks like its over.”

“Just like that!” Dean held his arms up triumphantly.

“Just like that.” Sam sighed, shaking his head a little.

Happily digging into his bag, he pulled on the first fleece he found, feeling it fit him like it was supposed to, his boxers not baggy or empty as he cupped himself for a few moments of reassurance before covering up his stuff with an extra layer of jeans.

“Wher-where are you going?” Sam sleepily asked.

“Get up, yer coming with me.”

Dean was yanking out the extra sock padding he’d filled his boots with and sliding them on up to his ankles, twining the laces briskly.

Sam was finally sitting up. His returning consciousness showing some of the relief that he maybe didn’t want Dean to know he was also feeling quite profoundly. But Dean didn’t miss it. It made him feel a little more like shit for blowing him off all night but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize anymore than he had. He wasn’t sure he was ready to just forget Sam’s natural sense of entitlement over his days and nights as soon as ovaries had come into play. Maybe not ever.

But he couldn’t blame him. And he couldn’t get mad at him. So he didn’t.

Dean slipped on his long lost watch, the comfortable heavy feel as welcome as putting on his broken in cracked leather jacket or turning over that finely tuned engine that was sitting there just waiting for them in the parking lot.

Their unconventional dawn just happened to correspond with happy hour.

“I wanna go shoot some pool.”

“Right now?” Sam was pulling on his shirt and trying to stop his yawns.

Dean really wanted to see if that fucking hustler would be there again. It was petty and cheap but Dean wanted that twenty spot back that he’d lost fair and square more than that 500 he’d lost two months ago at a rigged poker game that blew up in his face.

“Don’t ya wanna come along?” Dean asked with a small smile. “Make sure I get home at a decent hour?”

Sam collapsed back onto his bed and groaned. “Jesus, you are such a jerk.”

“We are outta here in five.”

Dean went out to the car and he knew Sammy was right. He should have a speech by now. Some somber fleeting set of words to explain what the hell the forces of nature had warped him in and out of like some brutal parlor trick. He frowned when he saw how low on gas Sam had left the car. He must have been driving up and down these cruddy streets until dawn.

Looking in the back rear view mirror, he slid a hand down over his jeans, briefly holding the weight that hung there under the paper thin worn denim. He wondered if he would ever actually forget what he had been given by the hands of a woman in her very own guise. He wondered if anything he ever did again in his future would even equal what he had felt in a body he'd been condemned to endure for a marked set of the moon's changing face.

At the end of it all, he thoughtfully rubbed the warm skin of his forearm where the line had now completely and utterly vanished without a single trace of having been there at all.

Dean wondered if Sam had been wrong.

He wondered if it had really been a curse at all.

 

the end  
(sam has one too, it shall be along...)


End file.
